The Evolution of Necessity
by emote rellish
Summary: The irony of Draco's past misjudgements leads him to question his perception of want versus need. Following the death of his father, he finds solace with someone unexpected. DHr, M for SL, some spoilers for HBP.


The Evolution of Necessity

xXx

* * *

Draco could feel the sweat beading on his forehead. Oh God, he could even taste it as it rolled along the angular planes of his face, invaded every wrinkled crevice and pore, lingered on his upper lip as he breathed. In and out. In went the saline, out came the strangled gasp of surprise at its brackish flavor.

He should have been at the Ministry, or at the Malfoy Manor in Wiltshire, or even at Hogwarts—fuck, anywhere but this inferno. Instead, he was sitting in an unstable plastic chair, watching his father's mental health slowly deteriorating. He could feel sweat pooling in several awkward areas of his body, dampening the fabric, leaving gauche stains in his clothing, but still, he left the window open. The Healers had repeated time and time again—"Your father needs the fresh air"—like broken record players.

"Here's your fucking fresh air," he muttered, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. He groaned, rolled up his sleeves, and languidly sprawled his arms along the back of his chair. The things he did for his father.

There had been a time when he would have eagerly collapsed at Lucius' feet, begged for approval, groveled and cried until Lucius patted his head and sent him away with a meager helping of his deference. But things had changed and though Draco had resolved to disregard the existence of his father for the rest of eternity, his mother had forced him to pledge otherwise.

"There are things you cannot possibly understand now, Draco," she'd said, brushing a lock of hair from his face, "but you will, later." And then like that she'd tilted her head back and died, and Draco had cradled her and cried into her shoulder for what must have been the first time in two decades.

"The Dark Lord will reward you well for your willing cooperation," Lucius said, jolting Draco out of his reverie.

His father was sitting up in his bed wrapped in a shoddy hospital gown, his long platinum hair now greasy and slick from neglect. He held a potted fern in his lap, the potted fern Draco had brought in to spite his father, who had mentioned on more than one occasion his sheer abhorrence for houseplants.

"Ah—actually, I gave you that, not the Dark Lord," Draco butted in, leaning forward to warily eye Lucius.

But his father paid no attention as he gently stroked the plant's stem and leaves. Draco cradled his forehead in his hands and contained a roar of frustration.

"Oh, you've got to be _fucking _kidding me," he muttered as Lucius continued to whisper sweet nothings to his newfound lover.

He should've expected this from his father. Even though time was dwindling, he would rather hold conversation with a houseplant than with his own son. As Draco massaged his temples, his father slowly fell back onto the bed, a smile of satisfaction contorting his normally stern features.

Draco stared at his father's unmoving chest for what was perhaps ten minutes before he realized that something wasn't quite right. He pushed himself out of his chair and walked over to Lucius, eyes slightly narrowed, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his slacks.

"Oh, fuck me," he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Then, he slowly unzipped the front of his pants and promptly urinated into the fern's pot.

xXx

* * *

Hermione gasped in protest of the heat as she exited St. Mungo's through the window of Purge and Dowse Ltd., her throat immediately constricting from the aridity. God, she could feel the heat penetrating through her skull, melting her brain so that it seeped out through the pores of her forehead. She wiped her brow at the thought, then tucked her handkerchief back into her purse.

"Granger?"

She pivoted, bone rubbing against muscle rubbing against skin, creating unbearable amounts of friction that only contributed to the heat.

"Malfoy," she politely responded, though her throat croaked in anguish. A groan would have sufficed, really.

Draco sat on one of the benches outside the storefront, a potted plant in the space beside him, a dark blazer thrown over the back of the seat. He had already made himself at home. She sneered, or at least she thought she did based on the extent to which she contorted her facial features.

"You look… nice," she lied, stepping into the shade beside him.

He laughed—a quick chuckle that sent shivers up along her spine and into the base of her skull. She hated when he did that.

"You look nice, too," he said, genuinely authentic with a cursory tilt of his head in approbation.

Hermione cocked a brow. Where were the scathing remarks? The malicious insults? He brushed a hand through his hair, loosened his tie a little more.

"Forgive me for the lack of witty banter. I'm rather fatigued at the moment," he sighed.

She nodded, distracted herself by focusing her attention on the plant—which smelled faintly of… piss? He turned, and as if reading her mind, shrugged and sunk a little deeper into his seat.

"It's a long story," he gestured towards the plant, "So, what brings you to St. Mungo's?"

She opened her mouth to respond, then closed it. With Draco, she would always be wary. Every aspect of their relationship was painted the same shade of gray.

"Harry—a… ladder accident of sorts…" she mumbled. Oh God, she was an atrocious liar.

"Ah, something Auror-related, I assume," Draco interrupted, lacing his fingers together in his lap.

Agh, she doubled back on her previous train of thought. Of course he already knew. They worked on the same floor, for goodness sakes. She could see a pink hue replacing his usual pallor. She immediately regretted treating him like a stranger, like a traitor even. No doubt, he felt either complete humiliation or complete anger at the moment.

"Yes," she slowly replied, "What are you doing here?"

He shifted, letting his head roll back a bit so that he could look at her.

"Lucius died," he said, quite candidly.

"Oh."

She turned away to look at her hands, at the sky, at anything. His frankness had caught her off guard. There was shock, and there was nonchalance. She expected many things from Draco—malice, anger, jealousy, but shock would never be one of them. That typical Malfoy nonchalance suited him far too well.

Unsure of what to do, she slowly reached forward and patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. She wasn't going to lie to him and express her remorse, because frankly, she was glad that Lucius was dead. He had been horrible in every definition of the word.

"I don't know what to say," she admitted, removing her hand.

"I don't think many people know, either," he said.

Draco stood up, then draped the blazer over his arm. He turned to face her.

"Let me buy you a butterbeer," he insisted.

Hermione at first, narrowed her eyes in suspicion, but Draco looked too defeated to engage in a verbal skirmish. He raised a brow in question with all the good intentions of a Saint as he stood in front of the dilapidated brick storefront like some sort of vagrant. She would probably chide herself for this later, but how could she say no to a man who had just lost his father? Even if he seemed extremely blasé about the entire ordeal, it was the polite thing to do. With a sigh, she nodded, tucking a few loose strands of hair behind her ear.

"I think you've forgotten something," she said, looking at the plant.

"It's not mine," he said rather roughly.

Then he grabbed her hand and gently pulled her down the sidewalk.

xXx

* * *

He hadn't held a woman's hand in ages, and Hermione's had been refreshingly sweaty in his own, equally sweaty, one. As they sat in the corner booth at the Leaky Cauldron, he could see the fine lines of her face, the way she raised a brow when she appeared unimpressed, or the way she puckered her lips to the side when she was concentrating. All habits he found highly endearing for reasons he couldn't explain. Perhaps that was why he'd so spontaneously courted her, if that was the appropriate word to use. He had purely innocuous intentions. Mostly, he wanted to do something he had never done with Hermione Granger before.

Talk.

She ran her index finger around the rim of her mug, then down the handle, wiping off small droplets of condensation.

"I've never heard you call him, father. Just Lucius. Only Lucius," she commented.

He leaned back in his seat, glad that it was much cooler inside the Inn then it was outside. The conversation had been going well, up until this point. He inhaled deeply through his nostrils, held the breath as he pursed his lips in protest of the thought trying to escape from his mouth, then released the breath in one harsh sigh.

"Granger, must you ruin every conventional conversation," he muttered, draping one arm over the back of the booth's seat.

She was angry, he could tell by the way she narrowed her eyes and jutted out her chin, as if to say—"So be it"—when really she was boiling up inside.

"He wasn't very much of a father," he finally explained.

Hermione raised her brow. Not impressed.

"Why did you take care of him then?"

"What? Just because he happened to hate me, I'm obligated to hate him, just as much?"

Stupid rhetorical question. He sighed, drummed his fingers on the table, and turned to stare at her until she looked away with discomfort.

"I promised my mother I would."

She nodded, like she had some inkling of understanding of the verbal contract he'd made with his mother moments before she died. He hated when she did that, absolutely hated it.

"So how did that go for you?"

"What do you mean?"

"He tells you to jump, you jump. He tells you to piss on that fern, you piss on it."

Oh, that was just rich. Hermione actually had a sense of humor. She had never shown him this side, though he'd always wanted to. When the Aurors would hold their meetings, he could hear her laughter through the door.

Of course, she wasn't an Auror. She worked with Ron's father, but every single one of those men and women loved her, and he was undeniably jealous of them all.

"What did you expect me to tell him? 'Can't feed yourself? Too bad. I suppose you'll have to lie there in your own filth and starve to death,'" he scoffed, taking a drink from his mug.

"You know what I mean… why not just say 'no'?"

Draco laughed, set his mug down on the table and leaned forward.

"He might not have been the same man he was before, but he was still Lucius. You did not say 'no' to Lucius," he emphasized, frowning with a startling rigidity, "You did not even say anything so far as 'I am disinclined to acquiesce your request' to Lucius.."

He hesitated when he caught the barest beginnings of a smile on her face—but it quickly settled into a tight-lipped glare. God, it was like the woman never smiled—at least not in his presence. No, scratch that. Not even within a five hundred mile radius of him. Finding his train of thought, he finished, "Any way you put it, 'no' was not 'yes', and Lucius would not take anything but 'yes'."

She pushed her mug aside and leaned forward so that they sat opposite each other with half a foot of space between the tips of their noses.

"That's it? You just let him give you orders?"

He narrowed his eyes, then slowly pulled back. She was treading on very dangerous ground.

"He had the mental capacity of a vegetable! And you're just going to sit there and tell me you did nothing? You just sat there, and took it?"

Her hands were splayed out on the table as she glared at him—glare being the crowning achievement since he could feel the blood rushing to his face, and knew very well that she could see it. She wanted something from him.

"You're more of a coward than I thought," she said, almost a whisper, as she leaned back into her seat with her arms folded across her chest.

Aha, there it was, that six-letter word, and oh how he hated that word.

"Granger—do you know how I ended up working for the Ministry?" he asked, his voice low and threatening.

For the first time in hours, Hermione kept quiet. He needed the silence to arrange his thoughts. All he wanted to do was reprimand her for her ignorance, for her naivety, but he simply couldn't. His sudden aversion to cruelty was unnatural, almost frightening.

He ran a hand through his hair as he cleared his mind.

"I confessed," he said as he found her gaze and held it, "I confessed for my father. I confessed for my mother. I confessed to every single sin we had committed on behalf of Voldemort. I gave the Ministry every file, book, artifact—everything—"

He paused as soon as she began to frown.

"And I bet you thought that it was your brains and Potter's courage that found Voldemort."

Her nostrils flared as she stared at him.

"What are you talking about? I dug through libraries of parchments and books and boxes every single day for months looking for those files—" she erupted.

He released a harsh sigh, stopping her mid-way through her sentence.

"How do you think those papers even got into your office in the first place? Voldemort's agendas, inventories, schedules—what? Did you think it was I _magic /I _--?"

He eyed her warily as she brushed her hair with exasperation. She was taking it all rather well, considering how he had just taken away her greatest victory. Exposing Voldemort. With a gruff mumble, she pointed at him accusingly, eyes narrowed in irritation.

"And how exactly does that prove that you _aren't _a coward? Ratting out your own parents," she hissed, "I don't believe a single word of what you're saying."

"You can call me whatever the Hell you want, but _I _was the one who found the Ministry, not the other fucking way around," he quickly retorted.

She cradled her forehead in one hand, massaging her temples with her thumb and middle finger.

"What did they give you?" she spit out between clenched teeth.

"The job at the Department, within speaking distance of Potter, and Lucius' transfer from Azkaban to St. Mungo's."

"I thought you hated your father!" she shouted, then immediately covered her mouth.

With patrons at the Leaky Cauldron accustomed to the occasional outburst, hardly a head rose in curiosity. Hermione turned back towards Draco, brow raised in inquiry.

"I did, I hated him more than any man I've ever known," he said, clutching his empty mug tightly in his hands.

"Then why? Why have him transferred?"

He stayed quiet. There were many reasons, many minor, inconsequential reasons. But only two had been important enough to dictate his decision. He squinted his eyes as he stared down to the bottom of his mug.

"Draco, why?" she persisted.

He had never relayed this to anyone, and God knew why he was telling Granger of all people. Perhaps it was because he had been working with her a year longer than she knew, holding private conferences with Arthur, diligently dropping hints into her lap. And she had always followed through on every single one. He'd tasted the doggedness she was so acclaimed for.

The word sounded awful in his mouth, but he knew it had rooted itself into the space between them and sprouted before he could stop it. Trust. He hadn't even been able to share it with his own father.

"Why?" she nearly shouted.

He grabbed his blazer and hastily dropped his mug onto the table. He'd almost said it, air on the tip of his tongue, far too close to exposure.

"Just forget it, Granger," he said as he stood up.

She shouted something at his back, but he hardly noticed as he stepped out of the Leaky Cauldron, the heat filling his mouth and lungs.

xXx

* * *

Hermione adjusted her belt for what was perhaps the fifth time that evening as she sat at the kitchen table across from Ron's father and a temporarily disabled Harry. She could hear Ron whistling in triumph as he scored again in the makeshift pitch out back, joined by the boisterous hoots of his other teammates from the Department. Aside from their cries, the kitchen was considerably quiet.

Harry eyed her warily from the other end of the table. He had only committed to assisting her in interrogating Mr. Weasley because of his short-term immobility. Had he the means, he would have stood up and ran outside to join in the game of Quidditch. But he didn't, so he sat still in compliance, fingers twitching with tedium.

"Hermione has a question about Malfoy," Harry finally said. Hermione promptly sat upright and nodded. She had nearly drifted to sleep.

"Oh, Lucius?" Mr. Weasley replied in an almost remorseful tone as he shook his head, "He passed away just a few days ago."

He combed anxiously through his red hair, or what was left of it at least, and let his hands sink into the heavy folds of his robe.

"Actually, the question is about Draco, not Lucius," Hermione clarified, "Draco told me the other day about a deal he made with the Ministry." She paused when she saw Mr. Weasley flinch. He coughed as he immediately averted his gaze elsewhere. God, he was just as bad a bluff as she was.

"He said something about files, documents, Malfoy heirlooms…" she said, her confidence waning with each second that Mr. Weasley refused to look at her. He cleared his throat, then opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it. Like a rickety screen door. He hardly said a word, but the look of befuddlement on his face said enough.

Hermione propped her elbows up on the kitchen table and cradled her head in her hands.

"So it's true, then?" she sighed. No use in beating around the bush. "Who else knew about this?"

Again, Mr. Weasley maintained his silence as Harry slowly looked away. Hermione immediately sat up, slamming her hands on the table.

"Harry!" she exclaimed.

He motioned for her to lower her voice as he gestured to the open windows and the large number of people outside. No wonder he had so valiantly fought against her plan to confront Mr. Weasley.

"I wasn't supposed to know either—I walked in on one of their conferences, and, well, I… we were going to tell you, but, you know, well—" he stuttered as he looked at Mr. Weasley in desperation.

Taking the hint, Mr. Weasley quickly interrupted, "It was my fault, Hermione. It was of utmost importance that no one, save for a handful of officials in the Department, knew about his participation..."

Hermione was insulted, mainly in part because of the Ministry's lack of trust in her ability. Hadn't she proved herself to be one of the most efficient workers in their Department? In the entire Ministry, for Merlin's sake? She felt her heart crumpling with a mixture of anguish and failure. God, she'd worked for them for nearly ten years now and still hadn't earned their trust. She folded her arms across her chest, glared at Harry and shook her head.

"So you two just let me go on being a big dolt, taking credit for something I didn't do," she said angrily. At the Ministry, they'd even thrown her a small party in celebration of the event, and she had taken the compliments with a smile, when half of them had probably known it was a sham. She felt like such an idiot.

Mr. Weasley waved his hands in objection.

"No, no, some of the material you found was entirely new to us—"

"Some?" she groaned, "So most of it was Draco's contribution? Oh, Merlin's Beard, the entire time, it was all Draco?"

Harry sighed and looked down at the wood ingrain of the table. He ruffled his hair and adjusted his glasses. She hated awkward silences like these—the kind where she sat motionless, wide-eyed and oblivious.

"You could have trusted me," she argued, but Mr. Weasley immediately shook his head and stopped her with a flutter of his hand.

"The Ministry was incredibly strict about who could and couldn't know," he explained, "For Harry, it took nearly three months worth of paperwork and meetings to finally convince the Minister. For Harry! Harry Potter!"

She could see she was making Mr. Weasley uncomfortable. His face was a deep red, his hands shook even when he wasn't talking—she sighed and decided to feign acceptance. Reaching across the table, she patted his hand and smiled, though her shoulders sagged with misery.

"It's all right, Mr. Weasley, I understand," she said, "Why was it so important that no one know?"

The red immediately flushed from his face at her words of reassurance. He calmed down and released the large breath he had been holding.

"Well, mainly to protect him. We wanted to guarantee that this particular _asset_ would still be alive in a month or so to feed us more information about You-Know-Who. About his moving habits, his schedules, his plans, that sort of thing."

"I still say we should have let the git die. Hermione could have found him on her own," Harry chimed in.

Hermione pursed her lips in indignation. Harry was awful with words, and had only added insult to injury. She rolled her eyes and ignored his remark.

"It was very difficult work, you know. Expunging the Earth of all traces of our little indenture," Mr. Weasley boasted, "There was only one time where it had truly been at risk, but thankfully, we intercepted that Owl and, well, that turned out to be a mess—any ways, Draco turned out to be highly reliable so we agreed to employ—"

"What?" Hermione stopped him, "Was the Owl from Lucius?"

Perhaps this was what Draco had been ranting about—the source of his hatred for his father. She could understand why he would despise the man who had nearly exposed his affiliation with the Ministry to Voldemort, especially if that man was supposed to be his father. She leaned closer as Mr. Weasley tilted his head in confusion.

"Lucius? Oh, goodness no, it was from Narcissa—without Lucius, we might never have intercepted the Owl," he said with his brow raised, as if he'd expected her to know already.

"Narcissa?" Hermione repeated in confusion. Before she could inquire any further, the back door swung open and a highly elated Ginny bounded in.

"Hermione—you should've seen it, Ron flew into the bushes," she laughed, but Hermione couldn't find the humor. Her head was suddenly pounding from Mr. Weasley's response. When she looked across the table at Mr. Weasley, he was already out of his seat, showering his wife in kisses. Harry seemed just as distracted, standing up with a bit of a struggle to pat the players on the back in congratulations.

She stood up and slowly inched towards the door. Her brain throbbed with the combination of noise and the unruly thoughts ricocheting off the walls of her skull. The story hardly made any sense. Why would Draco punish his father for something his mother had done? There were several matters that she needed to resolve. She thanked Ron for not properly closing the back door, then quietly slipped out into the humid evening.

By the time the noise died down, hardly a soul remembered having seen Hermione leave.

xXx

* * *

Not surprisingly, nothing had changed since his departure.

Draco took a seat on the bottom step of the main staircase, directly opposite the front entrance. He ran a finger down the banister to measure the amount of dust that had accumulated in his absence. Ugh. Too much.

Glancing around, the manor seemed almost barren. He clasped his hands in his lap and leaned his head against the handrail, tousling his hair so that it obstructed his vision. There were times where he greatly missed the company his parents had provided, as unaffectionate as it might have been. At least they had taken up space. It was too empty and too cold, and although it was humid and raining outside, the chill had settled into his skin the moment he had walked in. He had only been there one night, but he already regretted coming back.

Circumstances at his flat in London weren't any better. Constant barrages from the funeral services, from St. Mungo's, from the Ministry, from obnoxious reporters hoping to fabricate a word or two on behalf of Draco for their various columns. He'd said time and time again that he wasn't going to comment on the death of Lucius, but nobody listened. With a sigh, he scratched the back of his head and stretched his legs.

A flutter of action at the front door caught his attention. He immediately jumped up, enraged that someone would follow him to Wiltshire. He strode across the hall to the entrance and yanked the door open.

"You bunch of fucking morons—"

He shut his mouth as Hermione glared at him, brow furrowed with condemnation.

"Hello, Draco," she said, leaning her umbrella against the wall. She then pushed her way past him and into his home, the heels of her pumps clicking on the tile floor.

He was, to say the least, pleasantly surprised. With a gracious bow, he closed the door and turned around to face her. She looked disgruntled, arms folded across her chest, foot tapping with impatience. God, he'd hardly said a word to her and already she was annoyed.

He had been avoiding her. Their conversation at the Leaky Cauldron had left him feeling too vulnerable, which was part of the reason he had fled to Malfoy Manor. He needed the privacy to gather his wits, figure out what he was going to do about Lucius, regain his composure. He had a nagging suspicion that Hermione had returned to the Golden Trio with the spoils of war, sharing his life story over a laugh and a drink.

Unable to read her expression, he blurted out a "What?" of confusion. She brushed her hair behind her ear, narrowed her eyes.

"I talked to Mr. Weasley," she said.

"And I assume he told you nothing different than what I told you," he smirked. He loved being right.

"Tell me why," she demanded. Ah, this again. Draco walked away from her, down the hall straight to the back of the house. It was getting colder inside. He could tell it wasn't just him by the way Hermione grabbed her arms and shivered as she walked behind him. He decided he would wait until later to tell her that he hadn't turned on the air conditioning, much less knew where it was, or even if the house had it. Perhaps it was mourning for Lucius. He didn't know, and frankly, he didn't care.

He held the back door open for her and she stepped out onto the deck, hardly impressed by the acres of gardens surrounding them. Although they were standing beneath a canopy as it rained, she looked furious.

"What are we doing out here?" she hissed, though he could tell she was a little relieved.

He shrugged, inhaled some of the fresh, clean air. "I needed to get out of that house," he replied, stretching his arms over his head.

"Right." Again, not impressed.

Draco leaned against the wall, and she was quick to move in front of him, blocking his view.

"Tell me why," she demanded, all business.

He sighed, "Why what?"

She rested her hands on her hips and glared at him. Her appearance was startlingly refreshing and it was only during very brief moments when she stood still that he could truly look at her. Brown eyes, wavy auburn hair, flawlessly positioned nose with a dimple at the tip—

"Draco!"

And the moment was gone. He immediately retreated back to his nonchalant slouch and sneered. "What?"

"Why did you transfer your father to St. Mungo's?" she asked. He had almost successfully eradicated every trace of that conversation from the Leaky Cauldron out of his head, but of course, she had to remind him. Over and over again.

"Why are you so curious?" he countered, eyeing her with suspicion.

She groaned and yelled, "I need to know! I don't know why, but I just need to know!"

He stared at her. Her hair formed a halo around her head, and her eyes were pleading for an answer. She looked distraught as she turned away from him in embarrassment. She didn't want to beg, and he wasn't so cruel a man that he would make her.

For once in his life, someone wanted something from him, just for the satisfaction of having it. Not to barter with, not to sell, not to misuse. Just to have. He looked down at the ground and sighed.

"I wasn't lying when I said I'd confessed for my mother and father," he said, "My mother was a wreck without Lucius. So I went to the Ministry with a deal—I would help them out, if they would release Lucius from Azkaban for a day. They only agreed to a four-hour release period, but I took it because I trusted Lucius."

He stopped, organized the memories in his head. He had spent all this time trying to forget it that it was proving excruciatingly difficult to remember the order in which things had happened.

"I told my mother about the deal I'd struck. She was elated that she would get to see Lucius. The day came, and the Ministry had him escorted to our home by several Aurors—I think even Potter was there. We had a meal and then my mother and Lucius wanted some time alone," he paused again as he examined Hermione's reaction. She appeared unfazed. Typical Hermione. "So we barred them into the dining room because it was the only room in the house with no windows. He started yelling. And she screamed, and I rushed in."

The air caught in his throat as he remembered what she looked like, sprawled across the floor, her blonde hair like a wreath around her face. He saw Hermione staring at him, and shook the thoughts from his head and the nerves from his body.

"She was bleeding because someone had been stupid enough to leave a steak knife on the dining room table," he continued with an unsettling detachment, "The Ministry felt it was their responsibility, so when I asked them to move Lucius to St. Mungo's, no one protested."

Hermione averted her gaze when he finally turned to look at her.

"The reason I transferred Lucius was because I wanted to be able to watch him lose his dignity, suffer, and die. Just like I watched my mother die. You know, fair treatment. An eye for an eye. That type of thing."

He sucked in a large breath of air as a heavy burden suddenly fell from his shoulders. God, it felt good. When he turned to look at her, she seemed completely baffled. He ignored it, then with a nod towards the door, asked, "Want anything to drink?"

xXx

* * *

What kind of question was that? He had just recounted the gruesome slaying of his mother by his father, and all he wanted to know was her beverage of choice? How could she even properly react to that— _Oh thanks, a cola sounds nice, now what was that you were saying about the steak knife and your dead mother. _She furrowed her brow and threw up her hands.

"What's wrong with you?" she shouted, "How can you not feel the least bit of anguish for your parents?"

His expression of nonchalance quickly changed to one of anger as he grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her close. "I am trying to spare you from any more awkward revelations—now, I'm going to ask you again…"

She swatted his hands away and took a step back. "No! I don't want anything to drink!" she yelled, "Draco, when I talked to Mr. Weasley, he told me that—"

"Told you what?" he quickly cut her off, "The same exact thing he told me? That my mother died trying to stop Lucius from sending that fucking Owl?"

He held onto her shoulders, took several steps forward so she had no choice but to walk out from beneath the canopy and into the rain. She wanted to protest, but feared it would only provoke him further. From her vantage point, she could see the empty manor behind him and the deck railing to the left and right of her. She could feel the rain bombarding her, soaking her clothes, riding down her legs and pooling at the bottom of her shoes.

"Draco—what were the exact words he said to you?" she yelled. The sound of the rain was overwhelming. It pumped into her brain, blurred her vision. She nearly forgot her train of thought as she stared at him.

"He told me that Lucius killed her!" he released her and dug his fingers into his hair as he shouted it. She grabbed the front of his shirt and shook him as best as she could. He wasn't responding like she needed him to. His breaths fell heavy on her lips as she shouted at him.

"Think hard, Draco! His exact words!"

Draco let his hands fall from the top of his head, downwards, till his palms covered his face as he concentrated. She left her hands on his chest, felt his pounding heart rate, saw something like pain contort his expression.

"He said he killed her!" he shouted again, "Because of an Owl!"

Hermione grabbed his face, held it firmly so that he was looking at her. She could feel the firmness of his skin, the tautness of his jaw as he clenched it. He felt indestructible, which made it harder for her to understand the pucker of his brow and the weakening of his normally rigid shoulders.

"Draco, listen to me. Your father did not send that Owl—it was Narcissa. Narcissa sent it," she said, pulling him close so he could hear her. He really had no clue, none. Her head pounded as she looked him over. In all the years she had known him, worked side by side with him, she had never seen him look so distressed, so helpless. His eyes were glazed over with anger, rage, maybe even grief, and he suddenly pushed her away. Her throat hurt from yelling, and the rain was clouding her vision, so she let herself stumble back several feet. He staggered back under the canopy and turned to stare at her.

"Stop lying!" he shouted.

"I'm not!" she croaked, "I talked to Mr. Weasley and Harry."

She paused as she reached into the back pocket of her pants, feeling the paper-thin bulge of the envelope. Her throat constricted as she tried to speak, tried to form words and make comprehensible sounds. There was nothing. Just a strangled cry as she realized that somewhere between the encounter at St. Mungo's and her conversation with Mr. Weasley, she had lost her desire to cause him pain. No regurgitation of traumatizing memories from Hogwarts could revitalize it. It was simply gone.

She could barely see his face as the rain saddled her eyelashes, making her partially oblivious to the rest of her surroundings. She swiped the back of her hand across her face and furrowed her brow.

"Draco, I went back to the office today—I found the letter the Ministry intercepted," she hesitated when he tilted his head to stare at her, "She—Narcissa… your mother…"

Hermione stopped again. Oh God, it was like kicking the crutches out from beneath someone. He pushed himself away from the wall so he could hear her better. He had calmed down some, was listening again. Soon, he would probably be lunging at her to wring her neck in frustration. Why had she even decided to tell him?

"She was writing to Voldemort, listing the things you'd done, all the details of your pact with the Ministry," she blurted out. The words left a bad after taste, almost like vomit. She frowned, released an almost angry sigh. "Draco—that's why your father killed her—because she was going to let Voldemort kill you."

He stood still, and they basked in silence for several minutes. The patter of the rain filled her ears.

"He loved you, Draco," she finally murmured.

Draco pushed himself away from the wall and slowly walked towards her. Her bones were rattling, her head was spinning, and she was drenched, but she hardly noticed as he reached forward and grabbed her hand. Her chest collided with his as her eyes leveled with his nose. She could smell that mix of wood and vanilla on his skin, she was so close.

"Where's the letter?" he asked, his free hand pressing itself against the small of her back. The pads of his fingers pushed against her spine through the thin material of her shirt. She could feel each one, varying degrees of pressure, grazing her skin with effortlessness. His hand slid further down, over the dips and rises of her lower back, and rested firmly over the envelope tucked into her back pocket. She gasped as he pulled it out, then turned away from her to read it in silence.

Her mouth stayed open as she sucked air, in and out, chills coursing through her body. Yet, he seemed completely unaware of the confusion he had just created. When she looked over at him, his body was slack, one hand pressed against the wall for support as he read the letter over and over again.

She had memorized the last line, the most heinous of remarks a mother could make in regard to her own child.

_Please consider the value of my life and my husband's life over the life of our son. _

It had been written with such a heartless ridigity—she was surprised that Draco had not crumpled to his knees. Then again, Draco wasn't that type of person. He would perhaps throw a fit, or a chair, but no, he was not very keen on public displays of susceptibility.

Draco turned towards her, face completely blank, and handed the letter to her as if it were any other piece of paper. She cagily took it from him, then stuffed it back into her pocket.

"The last thing I told him was that I didn't think he deserved to live," he said calmly.

She reached up, cupped his face in her hands while he wrapped his arms around her waist. The rain was growing heavy again, falling like pebbles onto their heads, making his skin wet and slick to the touch. He leaned his forehead down with eyelids heavy with pleas, and rested it against her own. She could feel his breath on her lips, his hands running along her spine. His nose grazed her cheek as he bent his mouth to her ear.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, like some silent invocation.

With the lightest pressure, he pressed his lips to her earlobe. Then her collarbone. The side of her neck. Her cheek.

Her hands dropped from his face, slid up his chest and into his hair. He kissed her, feather light, testing her limitations. When he pulled back to examine her expression, she followed him, crushing her lips against his with an unfamiliar desperation that had her lower abdomen twisting with bewilderment. He mumbled something that sounded like her name against her mouth as they stopped to breathe.

"Draco—" she gasped as his hand slipped beneath her pants and roughly grabbed the curve of her ass. He pressed her body against his erection and breathed raggedly into her ear.

"Inside," he demanded, releasing her so that he could unfasten his belt with one hand and hold her wrist with the other. As she followed him through the back door, the chill from the manor immediately set in and her nipples immediately reacted, stiffening.

Draco hesitated as they reached the center of the main hall. Everything was still draped in white cloths and he looked uncertain about where to go. With impatience, she snatched the back belt loop of his pants, pulled him to her and let their noses grind against each other as she gently sucked his bottom lip, kissed him with such demand that he grunted in surprise. He reacted with an endearing sloppiness, thrusting his tongue into her mouth, entangling his fingers into her hair. She rested one hand on his navel, the other over his cock, and gently rubbed against him.

He gasped, pushed her hand away, then leaned down to kiss the space between the upper mounds of her chest. She lifted her arms up as he anxiously tugged her shirt over her head. Affection exploded inside her as she watched his childish eagerness, his clumsiness, things she simply had never expected from him. As he unzipped her pants, she managed to pull down his. The cool air hit their legs at the same time, sending them grabbing at one another again, kissing, nipping.

With skin rubbing against skin, hands slinking lower and lower, their undergarments fell to the ground. She felt her legs shake as he leaned forward, swathed a nipple with his mouth, sucked it with an engaging tenderness. His hand cupped the other, massaged it until she cried out in demand. Her fingernails dug into his back as she clutched onto him. Sinewy muscle embraced her, wrapped around her like a security blanket, pressed his stiff cock against her stomach. She gasped. Oh God, she wanted it.

Her arms snaked around his neck, but when she tried to lift her legs around his waist, he stopped her, settling his hands on her hips.

"Not like this," he gasped as she grazed his shaft with the tip of her nails. He pulled her hands off his body, then hastily drew her towards the main staircase. She had worried that they would lose interest by the time they made it to his bedroom, but she only grew more aroused as she ran behind him. His back was perfectly formed, delicately defined muscles protruding with each swing his arms took. The firmness of his ass, the vigor of his thighs as he bounded up the stairs—she could feel the wetness sliding between her legs.

He turned around at the top of the stairs, pulled her against him. She responded with such excitement that she pushed him into the wall, his head bumping against it with a soft 'thud'. He grabbed her hands and dipped his head down, kissed her so lightly that she nearly screamed out with anticipation. Then he was dragging her down the hall again.

The only piece of furniture not covered by a white sheet in his room was the bed—and that was frankly all she cared about. As soon as he opened the door, they rushed towards it. He picked her up, laid her gently on the smooth sheets, but hardly had time to look at her as she entangled her hands in her hair and pulled him on top of her.

He held her gaze before he kissed her again, positioning his lean body between her thighs. She turned her head away and grabbed a nearby pillow, slipped it beneath her ass, angled her lower body so it was easier for him to thrust into her.

"Draco—" she gasped as he gently pushed his index and middle finger into her slit. She needed him, inside of her, immediately.

With a soft cry of remorse, she pushed his hand away from her clit, then grabbed his cock. He groaned as he lifted his mouth away from her breast and looked at her.

"I want it," she demanded, her eyes frantically searching his for some indication that he wanted it too.

She ran the back of her knuckles along his cock and he groaned.

"Then it's yours," he said.

Her heart raced as she carefully examined him. His gray eyes were so full of sincerity, so full of anxiety. For once in his life, she sensed fear.

"Draco, I don't want _it._ I want _you_," she said.

He kissed her, then without hesitation, slowly pushed into her. She pulled her hand away, wrapped her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist. As she clung to him, he navigated his cock deeper into her until he had driven his entire length in. Then he stopped, his gasps of air like a cool breeze against her neck.

"Hermione," he said, "Tell me that you _need _me."

She could hardly understand what he was trying to say as she focused on clenching, then unclenching around him. He grit his teeth together and let out a slow groan of pleasure.

"Tell me that you need me," he managed to say again. Her body was writhing around him—of course she needed him.

She held his face between her hands and kissed him, hungrily, their noses colliding with clumsy impatience. When she stopped, he dropped his head and continued scattering kisses across her face, across her chest. He was so persistent that it felt like he was trying to win her, possess her.

"Tell me that you need me," he whispered harshly before nipping her neck. She arched her back as his fingers brushed across her pubic hair, down to their union.

"Yes!" she cried out, "I need you!"

He seemed satisfied, pulled out of her, then plunged back in, creating a steady rhythm. Their hands clutched on to each other as they focused on each thrust, their breaths heavy against one another. Each time he pulled out, her hips rose up to him, waiting, pleading, and when he re-entered, her body trembled with pleasure.

She could feel it growing, that steady friction against her belly increasing the periods of bliss radiating through her. Her back arched up, her breasts pushed against his chest, and she cried out as his cock plunged into her.

"Draco!" she screamed out before she fell back onto the sheets, the orgasm sending wave after wave of pleasure through her. Her arms and legs ached and her hair was still damp from the rain, but she hardly noticed as she watched him thrust, his brow knotted in concentration. He had never understood what it was like to be needed. To be needed just because he was Draco, not because his father was Lucius, or because his family fraternized with the Dark Lord. Just because.

He grunted as he plunged into her one final time, shouting her name like a prayer as he collapsed beside her, one hand drifting across her stomach to possessively hold her breast. And she let him hold her because he needed that much.

xXx

* * *

He searched beneath the sheets for her hand, took it with his empty one, then laced their fingers together. She complied, and even let him kiss her shoulder. Then her neck. Then her mouth.

His mother had told him something once.

"There are things you cannot possibly understand now, Draco," she'd said, "But you will, later."

It made sense, almost two years afterwards. He had always wondered what could have been strong enough to drive his father to kill his mother. Ironically, it had been the same thing that had driven his mother to sacrifice the life of her son.

Oh irony.

In a way, love was need, but in a better-looking package. _Need _required desperation, embarrassment, and even poverty. Love was the conclusion. The butterfly after eons of suffering in a chrysalis.

His need for a father had never reached that stage. Had never bloomed into love. It killed him that his father had reached it without telling him.

There was no explanation for his grief. It was impossible to mourn the loss of his father and retract the sorrow from the loss of his mother. His emotions remained in the same equilibrium that they had always been in. Nothing changed. Yes, he felt pain, but at the same time, the woman nestled beside him counterbalanced all of it.

With a sigh, he turned onto his side and watched Hermione brush the hair from her face. She'd had nothing to gain from showing him his mother's letter, from braving a summer rain storm to pass on a message that nobody else had felt was important enough to matter. She would never know how stunning she looked standing on his back deck, clothes soaked through, eyes glittering with fervor, and hair a complete mess. And after all that, she'd done it any ways. Given him a letter that had begun and ended with the love of his parents.

She turned, quirked a brow in query, hardly a clue as to the chain of reactions she had set off.

"It's getting warmer," she said, stretching her arms above her head. He nodded, but still pulled the sheets up over their heads any ways.

He rested his face beside hers, kissed her earlobe as he watched her hand dancing along the fabric awning above them. She didn't question his actions, didn't ask him why he had pulled the covers up when the bedroom had been hot enough as it was. She took what he gave her and didn't complain because she needed him that much.

He smiled against her neck, ran his hand through her hair.

"I think I need you too," he said.

* * *

Fin.

* * *

The assignment:

BRIEFLY describe what you'd like to receive: Something silly, something smutty, a little bit of draco fluff and the line "I am disinclined to acquiesce your request."  
What rating would you prefer? R, NC-17  
Deal Breakers (what don't you want?): anything goes!

Author Notes: I wrote this for the Hot Summer Nights fic exchange over at Livejournal. If you're a dramione fan, then I would head over there and check it out because there are loads upon loads of other stories. Also, about Out of Touch, I haven't updated that in literally a year, so I plan on finishing that up sometime in the near future. The sex was a bit strange writing because it's the first time I've ever written about it so.. descriptively? So that was new.The style was also a little different because it wasn't the typical crazy-cocky-Draco perspective I like writing from, for the sake of following the assignment I got.Thanks for reading, review if you liked it, and check out the other stories under dmhgficexchange at Livejournal.


End file.
